The Ghost Of You
by theScarlettWeasel
Summary: Kovacs has always been good at analyzing the trees, but Rorschach is best at burning down the forest. Chapter 5.
1. The Manhattan Project

AN: I've had the start of this idea bouncing around since I first saw the film. I know, I know, it's yet another Rorschach comes back / OC - centric story, but hopefully there's enough good story to go beyond that. Constructive criticism is very much appreciated; I'm very interested to know some of the more subtle aspects I'm trying to introduce here actually show, or if they need to be a bit more obvious (I will say though that I am aware that Rorschach sounds different than he does in the film--this will be explored in the next chapter). This will probably be the only chapter from Jon's perspective. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

"A live body and a dead body contain the same number of particles. Structurally, there is no discernible difference. Life and Death are unquantifiable abstracts."

I say these words on October 13, 1985, 9:03pm when I am brought first warning of a mask killer.

"I'm leaving this planet for one a little less complicated."

"But I thought you cared about life again?"

"I do…I think I'd like to create some."

November 1, 1985. I am saying my good-byes to Laurie. I will miss her but my thoughts are occupied with thoughts of what I will build on my red planet. The tachyons are fading and I can see my actions clearly ahead of me. I am also thinking about the last life I took.

Morality may be the only thing more abstract than either Life or Death.

On Mars, years after leaving Antarctica, I am creating a green house of sorts. I populate it with dozens of living things. Plants, insects, birds, and mammals—I realize that I am only mimicking the creatures of earth. I can see what I will do but I do not know the thoughts that will guide me there. I have attempted to create a human—I crafted all of the necessary elements and parts—every nerve and neuron in its place. It is a woman…she looks a little bit like Laurie. Or Janey.

A spark to the heart and brain and the body lives…in the barest sense. She moves about the garden, with no personality in her eyes—going through the motions of survival like a robot…or a puppet. This disturbs me and I destroy it. A failed experiment. It is clear that I cannot create a personality, a true person, from a twist of elements. There is something…abstract missing that I am unable to create.

I look to the earth. And I think about ghosts. About how a trauma can leave a place stained and haunted for centuries. It must be possible for a person's mind, their soul, to be imprinted at these places of high emotional energy. And I understand suddenly why I will return to Antarctica.

With a thought I am standing before Karnak once more, though it has been abandoned and empty for years. Perhaps even from the day at Adrian created averted World War 3.

There—in the same spot where he died, I can see the echo of Rorschach screaming. His expression is miserable and resigned, and still he roars like a wounded tiger. The snow is pristine where the shadow stands, then dies, and then appears standing again. I wonder if there is crimson buried beneath the snow, or if Daniel gathered what was left for burial. I have not thought about any of the former Watchmen since leaving, their lives and locations all a beautiful mystery. What will they make of this? A miracle or a blasphemy? I cannot see.

Standing before Rorschach as I did in the past, there is a symmetry to this. To be the destroyer, and now the creator. Either way he is yelling at me to act.

It is far simpler than I thought. Just a matter of reassembling the elements into a body, then a pull of energy to return the echo to the physical mind, then there is a flash of blue and Rorschach falls to his knees in the snow. Residual energy is dancing from his eyes and his head turns wildly from side to sides, seeing things that are hidden from me. His bare face twists into an expression of pain and horror and he falls forward, bracing himself as he attempts to vomit violently.

I am thrilled at my success, and kneel down to look at him, "Rorschach?"

His head jerks up and crystal clear blue eyes stare through me as his shoulders shake from the fading shudders of his nausea. I have taken some slight liberty with restoring the body, and his face is free from the bruising he died with and older scars as well. He blinks and his eyes snap into focus on me.

I don't know why I am surprised or somewhat hurt when he launches himself at me with a snarl. Even if I had not seen this action occurring, it is really the only logical reaction. Rorschach passes through me and sprawls in the snow; I turn to watch him heave himself back up, limbs shaking with an inexplicable exhaustion. It was perhaps foolish of me to think that reanimation would have no effect. He is still on his hands and knees

"What…did you do?" he demands in a strained, ragged voice.

He is no scientist so I spare him the details. "I brought you back."

His eyes are unfocused again, staring beyond me before closing his eyes with a shudder. There is an immediate shift in his cerebral patterns, and I wonder what he has been looking at that is beyond my vision. His heart rate slows and Rorschach pushes himself to his feet and looks down at himself for the first time, brushing snow off of his arms and shoulders.

"Your alpha waves have changed suddenly, is something wrong?"

He throws me a dark look briefly as he continues brushing snow away, then looks around and surveys the area; he takes in the ruins of Karnak. "Clothes?" he says finally, and I wonder if this is the last time I will feel any sort of embarrassment.

"Oh. Of course, I apologize. I forget…" He snorts softly, dismissively. A wave of my hand and he is dressed in simple linen pants and a tunic—I find it somewhat odd that clothing requires much more thought for me to create than a body. It is not the physical that makes human being so complicated.

He is clearly not pleased with the choice but makes no comment on it. Instead, he walks past me and looks at Karnak again. "What happened?"

"I imagine it was abandoned the same day you died. I cannot be sure though, I only see my own past and future, and I only returned for you."

This brings his eyes back to me quickly. "Why?"

"Fate and regret…" I shrug gently, "I wanted to give life, rather than take it."

Rorschach snorts again and shakes his head, "Suppose I should be grateful then?" There's a growl to his voice then, and he has started to circle around me, watching warily. I say nothing. "You know I'm going to expose Veidt. People have to hear the truth!"

I can see my next encounter with him clearly, and I nod to him in both times, saying "You will try." The corner of his mouth twitched as though biting something back. "It's been 25 years, Rorschach." He freezes at that, dropping his arms and clenching his fists. "I could offer to give you a place with me on Mars; I would like to offer you protection." He opens his mouth to protest and I raise a hand to stop him, "But you're going to tell me that it changes nothing and to send you back to New York."

"Do it then," he growls.

Even if I could not see my future, it's clear nothing will change his mind. "You have no resources…no allies…what do you think you can do? What can you achieve?"

"Retribution."

It's so simple for him—I know that I will see him again in New York, but right now I wonder how his life can mean so little to him. "You would throw your life away so soon after having it returned? Does it mean nothing?"

Rorschach bristles and points a finger at me, "The only thing that means _anything_ is Justice! Veidt –" he breaks off suddenly and his out stretched hand clenches and he closes his eyes tightly, taking a deep breath.

"Are you alright?"

"Stop acting like you care!" he snaps. "You don't care about the world or fighting evil, just your own _whims_! You didn't bring me back because it was right thing to do; you did it to see if you could--because you _saw_ that you could!"

I blink at him. This is…not what I had seen coming, and my view of the future has gone suddenly foggy as it reassembles itself. Nothing has ever changed what I see, or surprised me besides Adrian's tachyons. "Rorschach…"

"Just send me back to the City."

It is January 17th, 2010, 9:48am. I do as he requests, and then remain in Antarctica a few moments after he is gone. He is correct; I did not think about what the consequences of his return would mean for the rest of the world...or for him. If it is so easy for him to change what I see of the future, then why I have never thought to do the same?


	2. New York, New York

Thanks for all the positive reviews--I know that Rorschach seemed off last chapter but we were seeing him through Jon's eyes, who really never knew Walter Kovacs. There's not too much action in this chapter but it's very character heavy. I have to get into the swing of writing Walter / Rorschach--they are a tricky duo. Please let me know if it's confusing or silly. I generally don't like altering text, but it seemed the best way to be clear.

Time to say hello to Walter and Rorschach.

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They landed on a rooftop in a flash of blue light, and Walter collapsed to his knees—overcome with nausea and memories again. Rorschach was saying something, but his mother's shouting was drowning him out. She and all the other restless dead threatened to consume him.

_"Stupid fuckin' retard! I never should have given birth!"_

He flinched and closed his eyes tightly, breathing raggedly.

_"It's the whoreson! Get him!"_

_"That creep Kovacs tried to ask me out…ew…"_

**Get up Kovacs. Can't stay here.**

He shook his head violently to try and clear it. Cracking his eyes back open, he finally recognized the building as the old Watchmen headquarters and knew where he was in the city. It was early in the day still—bright sky and very little cover. Better to stay on the roof until nightfall.

_"Look at this runty little faggot…"_

**Kovacs! Get up!**

_"Laurie…he doesn't smell that bad…"_

In an instant, Dr. Manhattan had broken every protective wall and dug Walter Kovacs back out of the grave he had willing lain in for so long. He had opened his eyes in Antarctica and seen only his past washing over him like a rotten wave. Now he felt flayed and exposed.

**KOVACS! HAVE TO GO NOW!**

Suddenly the body was no longer under his control and Kovacs was thrown back with a surprised "Ennk!" as Rorschach took over and started sprinting them across the rooftop. As they ran, Walter finally noticed that taller offices now surrounded the old building, and that far too many people were watching from their windows.

**No doubt calling police—blue flashes can't be common.**

He cursed himself for being so stupid—so weak and flawed. But the taste of bile had left his throat and Rorschach was guiding them expertly down the side of the building, twisting and dropping over the fire escape. His bare feet were getting torn up somewhat from dragging on the brick work, but Rorschach doesn't care and the pain only helped to focus Kovacs until he can finally push the memories back and close them away once more.

They land heavily in the alley and take a moment to observe all the details—there doesn't appear to be anything of use to them, not even a trashcan, let alone a dumpster—of all the alleys in this filthy city…

There's a scuff behind them. "Hey buddy!" Two police officers are blocking the exit of the alley. "Got reports of a guy appearing on the roof-seen anything?" They were laughing at each other—not taking the reports seriously; they would never suspect an attack.

Rorschach spotted a dumped length of pipe and tensed to jump for it, but Kovacs pulled him back and cleared his throat. "Haven't seen anything down here," he replied.

"Didn't think so," the younger of the two cops replied, "but 'leave no stone unturned' amIrite?"

He was grinning; Walter did not grin back. The older cop—a fat man in his fifties—frowned and tilted his head slightly as he looked Kovacs up and down. "You homeless?"

"Yes."

The older cop nodded as though he was a great detective, "Yeah I could tell. There's a shelter a couple blocks south—you can get some shoes there."

**Police must not need intelligence in Veidt's utopia**, Rorschach muttered darkly behind his eyes, but Kovacs muttered "Thanks," as he walked past the two men, and disappeared into the crowds, eyes scanning the pavement to avoid damaging his feet further.

**Going to the shelter?**

Yes, we need different clothes. We stand out like this.

**Need my face**.

I know. But information first. Should try and find Daniel…

**Hurm…Sided with Veidt; sold his soul to protect the lies. Bad idea.**

Probably. Let me know if you think of one better.

Rorschach fell silent, seemingly content to leave Kovacs to his own devices. By the time they reached the homeless shelter, Walter had found a fair amount of loose change. This particular shelter was run out of a church, which meant it was private and usually you traded prying questions for being bludgeoned with sanctimonious dogma. A volunteer took one look at his bare feet and outfit and waved him over to a clothing bin. In a rare lucky break, he found a good pair of battered, leather, work boots his size as well as a pair of jeans, black t-shirt, and a zippered hooded sweatshirt. He also dug up a pair of cheap gloves and a knit cap.

Once he'd changed there was nothing but a shock of orange hair to mark him apart from the other vagabonds and junkies, and not even that once he'd pulled the hat on.

**Never thought utopia would need shelters.**

Kovacs snorted in agreement as he got in line for a free meal. It was only practical—he had no idea when he'd be able to eat again. He took his tray and sat down where he could see a television playing the news.

Ten minutes later, he was bodily escorted out of the shelter for throwing his coffee mug through the television. "PRESIDENT?! That lying, mass-murdering, homosexual is _PRESIDENT_?!"

"Hey hey, easy—he's been President since '92, man. Where've you been?" Someone was trying to placate him, but that only made Rorschach see red. Lashing out like a trapped dog, he managed to land a few blows before being hurled bodily into another alley.

"Sheep! Brainwashed, liberal SHEEP!" he shouted at their retreating backs. Kovacs got them back to their feet while Rorschach fumed. **This is utopia? A population of sheep? Blindly led to the slaughter house for Veidt's ego?**

Kovacs grunted in response as they headed down the street. **What happened to this country? No good, decent men left that Adrian Veidt is held up as a leader and only a shallow nation of whores and junkies to follow him?** A few blocks more and he found a newsstand; walking over, he was hit with a brief memory of Bernie, the newsvendor who always held his paper. The other memories loomed like cloud of crows on a battlefield, but he pushed them back into their hole fiercely. **No time for that,** Rorschach muttered, **Need more information; need my face.**

"Need today's New Frontiersmen," he said to the grizzled newsman, pulling the change from his pocket.

The vendor looked confused, "That nut job rightwing paper? That closed in the 80's. Sheeyit, I ain't had no one ask for that in 20 years." He chuckled once, but it died off awkwardly at the stony look he received back.

Kovacs blinked once, "Gazette then." He paid for the paper, folded it under his arm, and kept walking the long blocks to Daniel's apartment. When the crowds thinned enough, he started reading through it, pausing to lean against the building when he found an article of use.

The dollar was strong. Poverty and unemployment where down. The country had finished converting to clean cold fusion from Pyramid Industries. It was all deceptively positive liberal spin. Kovacs froze at one story—one of the smallest.

"Director of the DMH, Daniel Dreiberg, Personally Congratulates the Brooklyn Dodger on Largest Drug Ring Bust in 7 Years."

Walter read the small article three times, his expression getting darker and darker. The Department of Masked Heroes it was called. Veidt had reversed the Keene Act and set up a bureaucracy in its place. And Daniel was at its head. The newspaper was crumpled in his hands, and Kovacs threw it in a garbage can in disgust.

**Useless to continue to the apartment—even if Dreiberg kept it, he's one of Veidt's snakes now. Entire country has been infected with the sickness born in New York—plague seeping into the hearts and minds of fallen patriots. Need to burn away the diseased, rotten parts so wound can finally heal. **

Walter nodded and shoved his hands into his pockets. Even with Rorschach with him, he'd never been alone like this. Still, there would be no stopping—Veidt had to be punished. Daniel as well, for his betrayal. Where to begin though? It almost seemed too big.

Rorschach scoffed at him at his hesitation, **Start with my face**.

Yes, of course. Kovacs was always good at analyzing the trees, but Rorschach was best at burning down the forest.

We'll get your face.

They started the long walk to his old apartment.


	3. Eyes Without A Face

Whew chapter 3--starting to get things set up--a lot of exposition though, hope its entertaining. I got to introduce my OC-yay! It was meant to be more of a cameo for now, but then she wouldn't shut up in my head, so we get part of her perspective. I mean I think its cool lol. I meant to respond to Granite Ghost's review but forgot until just now, so I will do so here:

GG - "I don't think Manhattan thought this through enough. Maybe he thought that his future couldn't be changed..." This pretty much sums up my thoughts on Dr. M; he sees a version of the future but never questions it--just follows the path blindly. Rorschach is the exact opposite--questioning everything. It's an interesting mirrored parallel that I'd like to play with.

As always constructive criticism is awesome.

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It was well past 2am before Rorschach came near Kovacs's old apartment. His knuckles were bloodied beneath the gloves and there was a red bandana tucked into his back pocket. Kovacs had fallen quiet in the back of his mind hours ago, simply observing and thinking over all they had learned—Rorschach didn't see the point and decided to focus on cleaning up the city. He'd taken a lazy slow sweep through the areas of the city that would always be filthy and dark no matter how many people Veidt murdered.

Kovacs was a bit squeamish when Rorschach had taken care of a group of gang-bangers, but he offered no protest—he knew it was right after all. Despite his weakness though, Kovacs was a useful partner to have on hand—he had suggested they grab one of the red bandanas to serve as a mask until they recovered Rorschach's face.

Looks like the original building is still intact, Kovacs observed as they walked the final block.

**Good. Means face still there.**

Turning down the alley, Rorschach pulled his gloves off and tied the cloth over the bridge of his nose. It was an easy, familiar climb up the fire escape and, if he kept his eyes on the faded roof as he jogged across, Kovacs could pretend that nothing had changed. Rorschach flexed his hand, causing the knuckles to ache**. Nothing ever changes**.

He hung onto the side of the building by the fingertips of one hand and pulled the window open with the other. **Lucky for tenant we're not scum**, Rorschach observed as they slipped inside, **will teach them to lock windows**. He crouched low in the shadows, taking in the shapes and space of the apartment. It was bigger than he remembered—they had combined two apartments into a larger one. He stood and walked to the wall, pulling a few framed articles down lightly. He paused for a moment when he noticed suddenly that the articles were about Nite Owl III and featured pictures of a young smiling hero and Daniel.

"**Hurm..**" he muttered, and tossed the frame aside gently, filing the information away for later. Running his fingertips over the surface, Rorschach let sense memory tell him where the hollow section was.

The lights clicked on suddenly and he closed his eyes tight against the flare and spun around, glaring. There was a woman wearing a pair of faded jeans and a white tank top, a bat held at the ready in her hands. She was barefoot and had a dazed, adrenaline fueled look in her eyes. Rorschach had woken her.

"Get the hell out," she said, voice shaking slightly though her hold on the bat was firm.

"**Didn't mean to disturb you**," he replied in as polite a tone as he could muster. "**Just need to pick up personal affects, then will leave**." Rorschach turned back around and rapped his knuckles on the wall once, then again a few inches down.

He could hear the woman breathing behind him, "What?" Rorschach grunted softly and knocked again to the left--there was a hollow sound. She shifted her weight and took a step away from the doorway; he flicked a glance over his shoulder.

"**Don't**," he growled as his fist clenched. The woman was approaching the phone and she froze, braced for him to attack. "**Can call police after I leave**." Her face was set but her frame trembled; her eyes moved from what she could see of his expression to his fist. Rorschach turned back, punched through the drywall, and pulled out a bag in one clean motion. It was battered and flattened from being hidden in the wall, covered in dust and cobwebs, but whole.

There was a thud as the bat dropped to the carpet and the woman's hands went to cover her mouth in surprise. "How did--?!"

"**Put it there**," Rorschach told her. He pulled the bag open and dug through it until he finally found his prize. The black and white fabric warmed and began to move at his touch, still so very beautiful. He almost smiled. Then he turned, pulling the cap and bandana off.

The woman was staring at the mask in his hand. "That…that's Rorschach's mask…"

Rorschach grunted, "**I know**." Dropping the bag, he pulled the mask over his head with both hands, turning his head so it was aligned properly.

"How could you have…" her voice was weak, and he ignored her. "You shouldn't wear that," she spoke suddenly and then looked utterly surprised at her boldness. Rorschach tensed and turned to face her. The woman seemed to wilt a bit under his stare, and then she tightened her small fists and rallied. "It's not yours. Rorschach was a hero; he died trying to stop Dr. Manhattan from attacking…that..that belongs in a museum."

"**Hurm**," Rorschach muttered, crossing his arms over his chest and tilting his head at her slightly. "**Lies always hide best behind the truth**." She frowned lightly, brows furrowing as she thought.

He grabbed the bag and took a step forward and the woman moved back pressing her back against the wall—almost like she was trying to make herself smaller. "What are you going to do?" her voice was laced with fear, but there was a trace of iron about her. She was prepared to fight for her life. Walter respected that, and Rorschach begrudgingly agreed.

"**Leave. City's still filthy and sick under the shine; needs to be cleaned out from the bottom up**." He grabbed the bag and pulled it over his shoulder and across his chest; while the woman watched with her wide green eyes, he crossed the room and straddled the open window. Walter crouched a bit and looked at her one last time. "Remember to lock your windows."

Then he was gone, slithering back up to climb over the edge of the roof. Walter made them linger long enough to hear her slam the window shut and lock it tightly, and then he explained to Rorschach the beginnings of a plan.

* * *

Samantha Grace Knight, 34, was exhausted and tired of repeating her story, but the two young officers from the DMH had not heard yet, and it wasn't their fault the police hadn't bothered listening enough to brief them.

"He wasn't very tall, baggy clothes but he was strong—one punch through the wall!" she said gesturing uselessly at the hole and dust left behind. The blond agent nodded as he took notes. "Blue eyes…that's all I saw of his face. Red hair though…Christ I thought he was going to kill me," Sam paused as she relived the events and the agent looked up in surprise.

"Was it natural?"

"It could have been…his skin was pale, looked like freckles on the back of his neck."

"He say anything specific about his plans?"

She shook her head and ran a hand through her hair, before crossing her arms protectively around her. "No, just that he was going to clean out the city."

The agent nodded then glanced over to his partner who was holding a framed article, reading it quietly. The blond agent snapped his fingers in annoyance at him and the other man glanced up sharply. He looked sheepish and reverently set the article back down and walked over, adjusting his glasses. "I think that's all for now Mrs. Knight," the blond agent told her. "We'll submit a report to Director Dreiberg, but it's probably just another copycat."

Sam opened her mouth to reply, then thought better of it and just nodded, "Of course."

The agents turned to leave and were nearly out the door before the one in glasses turned on his heel and walked back suddenly. "I'm sorry to bother, Mrs. Knight," he said hurriedly, "but I met your husband at the DMH when I was just a recruit…he was a real class act, ma'am. And I know you must hear this all time, but he inspired me to stay. And…I'm so so sorry we lost him."

Sam smiled tightly and nodded once, "Thank you."

The blond agent made a pained expression and moved over to grab his partner and direct him out firmly, mouthing 'I'm sorry' to her as they left. Sam couldn't fault any of the people who felt that they had to say something to her about Joshua—he had that affect on people. He was a hero. He died a hero. Nite Owl III belonged to all of NYC, and the city still grieved, but on nights like this, when she was alone and scared, she just wished people would stop bringing up her late husband.

Heaving out a breath, she bolted the door and threw the chain, then triple checked that all the windows were locked. The adrenaline was long gone and all that was left was a frightened woman alone in an apartment that no longer felt safe, and several hours to go before dawn brought its comforting illumination. Sam walked back over to the damaged wall and lovingly began to pick up the dropped frames. She brushed the plaster dust off of them, and hung up those she could and set the others on the bookshelf. Her eyes lingered on a picture of herself and Joshua on their honeymoon; she blinked and turned away before the knot of hurt could reach her throat.

Sam grabbed a blanket and parked herself on the sofa—there would be no more sleep tonight. Flipping through late night drivel, she frowned and ran a hand through her hair again—it was all well and good for the agents to write off her burglar as yet another Rorschach copycat.

Seemed like a new one came out of the woodwork every few years—Psyche was the most recent, and had been pulled out of the river, two week's dead. There was no matching the original, but this man came the closest. He was the right height, and build, got his hair the right color, and had the voice down from what she'd heard when the Long Interviews had been declassified for her thesis work years ago. None of that proved anything of course, but how had he known that Rorschach had stored his spare costume in the wall right there? The sheer fact that this had been Walter Kovacs's apartment was highly classified.

Was it possible that the vigilante lived? No, no Mr. Dreiberg had witnessed his death in the Artic first hand. Unless Dreiberg lied…What had the burglar said about lies?

Why did she even care? Why was she more bothered by the fact that the burglar had known exactly where that artifact was than by the sheer fact that he had broken in? In fact he'd shown no interest in her at all really—aside to prevent her from hindering his escape.

Sam closed her eyes tightly and shook her head. She wished Joshua was here—he was so much better at taking a problem apart to examine the pieces and figuring it out than she was. Rubbing a hand over her face, she sighed again and stretched out on the couch, letting the infomercials lull her to sleep as her mind kept replaying the night's events.

_"How did—"_

_"Put it there."_


	4. Man Walks Into A Bar

Woo chapter 4-- A lot of you have mention how very separate Walter and Rorschach are. I'm glad you seem to be enjoying it--it's an interesting dynamic that I'm certainly having fun with--as you'll see in today's chapter.

Please to enjoy!

* * *

It had taken Walter several hours to convince Rorschach to even consider that what they needed was, in fact, attention. The city revolved around press—it always had and always would. One cleverly written story and twist of staged photos and New York would spread her legs for you. That's how Veidt had always operated, even before he'd revealed his identity, standing proudly in the limelight. That self-aggrandizing, egotistical, liberal, glory hound had stood for everything that Rorschach despised, and that had been before he had killed millions. Now Kovacs was telling him that they should do the same. Disgusting.

It was even worse that he seemed to have been shoved into the public eye posthumously. That woman had recognized his face instantly when he pulled it from its hiding place, then she had declared that it belonged in a museum! Rorschach wondered if Veidt had made him a saint in his new religion as a sick joke, or to soothe a guilty conscious. Kovacs wondered briefly if Daniel had anything to do with it.

Tucking his personal effects into the bag again as the sun rose, Walter took them back down to street level. Rorschach had gone silent—utterly uninterested in the mundane, human, acts of living. Kovacs hardly minded though, he could no longer ignore his hunger and it was easier to think without the other part of him growling for action. It didn't take long to find shelter serving food, and a recent newspaper—there was also a television in the common room that seemed to be dedicated to the news. Walter got his meal, found a pen, and stationed himself in a quiet corner, listening and taking notes across the paper.

Once the sun began to set, he got one last small meal before leaving the shelter, paper tucked into his bag. He headed back into the old neighborhoods to verify his target was still there, and then ducked down an alley to change and hide the bag of street clothes.

Rorschach stepped out into the night and rolled his shoulders savoring, for a moment, the feeling of his face, his scarf, his coat and his spotless gloves. Flexing his fingers, he crossed the quiet street and slammed the heel of his hand into the bar door, throwing it open with a bang. An elderly man behind the bar jumped in violent surprise then his jaw dropped as the vigilante walked in. "**Happy Harry. Long time no see**."

Happy Harry's expression was somewhere between horror, shock, and something almost like relief. He ran a leathery hand over his silver hair and gave a low whistle, "You crazy bastard…never thought I'd see you walk back in here."

Rorschach tilted his head slightly and stalked over to the counter—there were only a few professional drinkers in the bar and they all fell silent and watched. "**Sorry to disappoint**."

Harry suddenly broke into a grin and reached out to clap him on the shoulder, making him flinch slightly. "Disappoint? You're exactly what this goddamn rat hole needs!"

"**Could be a copycat**."

"The hell you are!" The old man looked Rorschach up and down and then shook his head. "Christ you haven't changed at all," his voice got quiet and heavy with time, "they all said you died trying to stop what happened. I didn't believe it you know, a lot of the neighborhood didn't." Harry made a sweeping gesture with his hands, "Not Rorschach—that sumbitch was tougher'n nails. You was our hero—cops didn't care an' there's no glory for the new generation of masks to come down here. But you? You was down here ev'ry night."

"**Hurm**," Rorschach tilted his head again and started to tap his fingers impatiently on the counter, "**Gotten senile Harry? Neighborhood never thanked me**."

A wizened hand slammed down on the scarred counter with surprising force, "We should've! We damn well should've—You an' that Nite Owl kid. After you disappeared…after the attacks. It got so bad…the city screamed for a hero." He seemed to shrink a bit and then shook his head to clear it. "Still does. Some of these bastards…" Harry blinked and waved his hands as if to clean the air, "But listen to this old man…what d'you need?"

Now Rorschach was interested, **"Who's the worst?"**

"Leonard Reed!" A voice called from the back. Both Rorschach and Happy Harry turned to look. "That spoiled bastard likes to beat the shit outta the girls down here—killed a few too." The rest of the bar patrons nodded and continued drinking solemnly.

Harry pointed a finger at the speaker. "You're goddamn right! That punk thinks he's untouchable with his big money an' big lawyers. Cops won't do shit and the heroes all have these damn super villains popping up all the time."

"**Where can I find him?**"

"Just keep an eye on the Black Cat Club," the patron yelled out again, "he'll be around."

Happy Harry nodded again and then pointed to the vigilante. "He'll always be in a three piece suit, the slick fuck. Trench coat too." Rorschach gave a sharp nod and turned to leave. "Break a few fingers for me!" Harry called as he disappeared.

An hour later, Rorschach had staked out an elevated position where he could watch the area around the club. **City's almost unrecognizable—but still bleeds the same bile. All the familiar vices…same old tricks with new gloss and shine. Good citizens still shrouded in apathy. Small devices in their ears like bloated glistening ticks. Pay no attention to the reeking filth the monsters leave behind. The City remembers though… Happy Harry and the other old alcoholics drunk on nostalgia; calling out to me to save them. Seems masks registered with the government now—just as useless and corrupt as the police.**

'There he is.'

Rorschach bristled slightly when Kovacs stirred behind his eyes. **Not going to beg for his life?** He watched the slick, evil-eyed businessman follow a girl down the alley; and then slithered easily down into the shadows to follow.

'No. He's a rabid dog—only one way to deal with dogs.'

**Thought you'd gone soft—wanted us to leave scum for police.**

'Only the young ones—the ones that can change. There's no changing filth like him. Police and masks are bound by red tape; won't do what needs to be done.'

Rorschach said nothing as he crept up behind his prey. Reed lived up to his name—he was over six foot tall and very slender. He pulled one hand out of his pocket and the light reflected off of a coil of wire in his gloved hand. 'We gain nothing with surprise here,' Kovacs whispered to him, 'make sure the street walker sees us and she'll tell a hundred more.'

Rorschach growled in distaste but stepped out of the shadows. "**Reed!**" Both the streetwalker and Reed spun around—the whore took in the situation and ran. The businessman looked over his shoulder as she disappeared, then turned back with a sneer. He never expected the gut shot. Reed groaned and fell to his hands and knees, clutching his stomach.

"You fucking wannabe," he gasped looking up at him. "You can't do this." Rorschach kicked him in the head—not hard enough to knock him out, but enough that Reed howled and curled up against the brick wall. Now he held his nose, blood streaming down over his mouth. "You're fucking finished!" Reed shouted, brandishing a finger at him, "I'll have your goddamn license for this!" Rorschach reached out and broke his finger easily—the taller man screamed and fell to his knees, clawing at the gloved hand that held him.

He tilted his head as he looked at the sniveling, bleeding man. "**Don't have a license.**"

Reed's expression began to shift with dawning horror. "But…but you have to have one…"

Rorschach broke another finger, "**Don't need license to dispose of trash**." The screaming stopped soon after.

---

The next day, Walter watched the police cut down Reed from where he hung suspended by his tie off of the corner of a fire escape. Locals gathered around and several began to clap and cheer when the body fell. "Sonuvabitch had it coming!" a man yelled—he recognized the voice from the bar.

One of the police officers pulled Rorschach's calling card off of the body and looked at his partner grimly. They begin speaking into their radios; and, as Kovacs walked away, hands shoved into his pockets, a black sedan passed him, two feds in the front seat.

**Veidt's puppets will go running back with news**.

'Not yet…this will be written off as copycat, but they will wonder, and when they find more, they will start to fear.'

Rorschach made a frustrated noise softly and Kovacs could hear leather gloves creaking from somewhere in the shadows. **Should go to Washington and face him—cowardly to hide behind the bodies of rapists and junkies**.

'Suicide mission. We'll gain nothing. Need to do more research—can't face Veidt unprepared again.'

There was a rushing growl in his ears that might have been Rorschach, or his own blood pounding. _**WASTING TIME!**_ Kovacs had to close his eyes tightly against the rage and ducked down an alley, clutching his throbbing head. **Weak Kovacs--gone soft! City's been allowed to rot and fester for years! Now you want to waste more time with your head buried in sand! Veidt MUST be punished!**

Walter couldn't stop a small, strangled noise as he curled further into himself. He was sick and tired of feeling like he was drowning in this monstrous doppelganger of his city, of feeling like he was being pushed around, or ignored, or humored –the other masks had always just humored him in the seventies, all except Daniel. He had to have Rorschach on his side…he had to. Kovacs couldn't stand the thought of being so alone in a world of enemies.

'Twenty-five years,' he shouted back inwardly, 'we know _nothing!_ Nothing about the government, the people, the criminals, the new buildings—Even the subway is different! We have no allies, no partners, and our only contact is an old drunk! There is no way we could get within 5 miles of the _PRESIDENT_ doing it your way! You _have_ to trust me or we'll both fail again!'

He was panting lightly in the shadows of the alley, leaning forward on his elbows against the brick wall; his fingers were clawed into the knit cap as he hid his between his arms. Rorschach was silent for such a long time that Walter was irrationally afraid that he'd left somehow.

**Hurm…**it was exhaled in a heavy breath and Kovacs was ashamed of how very relieved he was to hear that voice again. **How do we proceed then?**

'Just like we planned—clean out the gutters and rat holes by night. I want to search that woman's apartment more thoroughly; she's connected to Dreiberg. Just have to learn her patterns first.'

---

By the end of the next week, there had been twelve more men left for the police with the same signature. Only 4 were dead when found. Patrols at night were doubled and the black sedan became a constant sight.


	5. Always A Fuss And Fight

Here's a new chapter sooner than I thought (I've had a lot more time since I'm between jobs). Sorry there's no Rorschach/Walter in this chapter, but there's a lot to get set up for a big exciting story lol. I'll try and make the next chapter a little more dynamic than "Two characters have dinner and talk" but dang I need to do the exposition!

Plenty of Rorschach/Walter in the next chapter, promise!

* * *

Sam hadn't slept the whole night in over a week—she was beginning to feel like her apartment was haunted. Bad enough she had felt like she was being followed to and from school for two days after the break in—worse, now she was convinced that her things were moving while she was gone. She could have sworn she'd bought a can of baked beans, but she'd be damned if she could find it now, and her books were all out of order. It was driving her to distraction, and she was catching hell for it since she was now overdue to turn in this quarter's grades.

She even thought she saw him once too. Walking to the station one morning, Sam had stopped at a crosswalk and looked up at just the right moment. He was across the street from her, on the sidewalk that ran parallel—a shorter man in the same black hoodie and ski cap. He was leaning against the building, reading a newspaper; there was no reason for her to suddenly suspect him of anything—the man was utterly unremarkable. Then they had made eye contact and from across the street she had been confronted with piercing blue eyes. Her breath caught in her throat, heart pounding as though she expected him to rush across the street. The crowd surged forward to cross, and she lost sight of him. It had only been a few seconds—she brushed it off as her own paranoia.

All of these thoughts and fears were nagging at her as she sat down to read the paper during her lunch in the teacher's lounge. Sam nearly dropped her cup of coffee when she got to the local news and read the headline "Copy Cat Continues Criminal Cleanup!" It was a short piece about the unlicensed hero activity taking place near her neighborhood. The article said it was another Rorschach imitator, leaving the original hero's calling card with each of the bodies. There was a quote from a local who declared it was the real Rorschach. It was all too weird to be coincidence—the man who broken into her apartment was now operating under the vigilante's identity. And apparently doing a good job of it as well.

Daniel Dreiberg called her less than an hour later. She felt an irrational stab of paranoia when she saw his name appear on her phone—like she was about to open a door into a dark room. "How you doin' Sam?" his gentle, familiar voice put her ease though, as it always did.

"Won't lie, Mr. Dreiberg, it's been a shitty week."

He laughs sympathetically, "So I've heard kiddo; I'm in town for some meetings—how about I come over for dinner tonight?"

She smiled and ignored how her co-workers were eavesdropping, "That'd be great…I could use your opinion."

"Well, in my opinion you should make your spaghetti, Laurie can't cook Italian to save her life; and, please, I say it every time—call me Dan."

"Sorry Dan, I'll make it up to you with garlic bread." She replied with a laugh.

"That's my girl; see you at seven."

After hanging up, Sam felt a twist of guilt at her initial reaction; it felt silly to say out loud but Dan was the closest thing she had to a father. There was no reason to suspect this was anything more than just a bad week. Why would anyone follow her? There had been a few strange instances after Joshua died—but that was eight years ago.

She managed not to think about her intruder at all the rest of the day—in fact she made it as far as walking up to her door that evening with an armful of groceries. Sam paused just a moment before sliding her keys into the lock—there was no one inside, she reminded herself. Letting herself in with a deep breath, Sam was pleased to see the living room looked completely the same.

She didn't notice the spoon until she moved to put the colander in the sink while the pasta boiled. It wasn't in and of itself terribly threatening, but it had certainly not been there when she'd gone to the school that morning. She stared at the spoon for a long moment, as if it would somehow disappear back to its rightful place, or she would suddenly remember 'Oh yes, that's right, I did have a yogurt this morning…' But she hadn't, and it remained where it was. Her hands shook a little as she lifted the lid of the garbage can—well, someone had a yogurt this morning! Sam slammed it shut again with a huff—suddenly frustrated that this intruder was freeloading off of her like some kind of oversized alley cat. And the fact that he had thoughtfully washed the spoon only bothered her more.

Sam nearly jumped out of her skin when there was a knock at her door. She opened it hesitantly, and then sagged in relief when it was Dan—of course it was Dan, who else would it be?

"Hello kiddo," he said warmly, stepping forward and embracing her in a firm hug.

She smiled against his chest and then moved back, "Hello, hello. It's good to see you." They headed into the kitchen where Dan took a seat at the small dining table in the corner.

He accepted the beer she offered with a smile and then ran a hand through his graying hair. "How've you been? Shitty week aside, of course."

Stirring the simmering pot, Sam examined the sauce with a tired smile. "I've been fine—the kids are great this year."

"Been seeing anyone?"

She scoffed, "Certainly not."

Dan frowned lightly and took a drink, "I just worry about you. It's been eight years."

The thought of the DMH Director being kept up at night out of concern for her made Sam laugh ruefully, "I'm sure you have much bigger fish to fry than to worry about who I am or am not seeing."

He gave her a very fatherly look, "Alright, I remember, no talking about you. Tell me about the break in."

And so she did—explaining every detail of the break in she could remember while they ate. Afterwards, she showed him the hole in the wall; by the time Sam finished, Dan was frowning deeply, looking every inch the old veteran that he was portrayed as on the news. He adjusted his thin wire frame glasses on the bridge of his nose as he examined the damage.

"To have come in from this window almost suggests that he didn't know the apartment had been expanded…" Dan said to himself thoughtfully. "God only knows how he knew about the third costume though."

Sam frowned slightly, "There were three?"

He nodded, "Must have been. The police took the first when they arrested him – it's currently on display in the Met for the memorial. Rorschach and I came back here after I broke him out to get his extra costume, but it was in the corner…he didn't even look at the wall then. Just grabbed his stuff from a corner and left—had a run in the with the land lady…" Dan's voice trailed off as he remembered, looking off into space as he tried to puzzle it all out. He looked over at her in surprise, "Sam? You okay kiddo?"

She had dropped her drink, the bottle lying forgotten on the floor—she had her hand over her mouth; it was shaking. "Oh God…" she murmured, "Oh God I remember that…" The memories of that night crashed over her and Sam stumbled as she took a seat on the sofa—the sounds of two men speaking through a door, her mother so very, very afraid. A threatening redheaded man with terrible eyes coming out of the shadows…she'd had nightmares about a shadow man for a year…

Dan looked utterly confused for a moment and then blinked, his own eyes going owl-wide. "You were one of the kids," he breathed in amazement and then took a seat next to her, putting an arm around her shoulders.

"Oh wow," Sam murmured, rubbing her eyes as if to push the memory away, "I had completely forgotten that."

The older man ran his hand across her shoulders soothingly, "You just can't keep away from us masks can you?"

She laughed softly and shook her head, "Probably a sickness of some kind." Pushing herself back up to her feet, Sam blinked the memories back and ran a hand through her hair though, "So this guy might not have known that this apartment was expanded, and knew about a bag that it's likely only Rorschach knew about? Not exactly the reassuring 'don't worry Sam, he's a complete imposter you're totally safe' I was hoping for."

Dan shrugged, "Sorry kiddo—of course he's an imposter. Rorschach's dead." There was a flicker of old sorrow across his features, "I watched Manhattan kill him after the attacks." Something about that caught Sam's ear and she filed it away for later—she was more concerned with her irrational paranoia and whether or not to bother him with it. But for all his softness, there was little that went past his notice. That sharpness was focused on her now. "What's wrong?"

Sam bit her lower lip a bit, then remembered how Joshua used to chide her for being too quick to show all her cards. "It's just so weird," she finally answered in a half-truth. "How could he know these things?"

The older man gave her a reassuring smile and stood to pick up the bottle, setting it on the table. "Oh who knows what can be found on the Internet these days, kiddo," he said, patting her back. "You don't have anything to worry yourself unless food starts to go missing." Dan laughed at that, shaking his head, "Rorschach used to just come and go; eat all my food. Course I just encouraged him—buying those sugar cube catering packs."

She could only hope she didn't look guilty. "Sugar cubes?"

"Oh yeah, he ate them like candy—damned if I know what he saw them in." Dan suddenly looked down to his shoes muttering, "Poor guy."

"You two were really close?"

The older man snorted softly, "He didn't let anyone close, but I flatter myself that he probably trusted me most." He had a faraway look in his eyes that she knew very well—that old grief that time couldn't wash away after eight years or twenty-five.

"I'm sorry," she told him softly, feeling useless.

Dan blinked out of his thoughts and sheepishly pulled his glasses off to inspect them, taking a deep breath. "Nothing to be sorry for, kiddo. I realized after a few years that it was probably what he wanted."

Sam frowned at that, "Suicide by Manhattan?"

"No, no, suicide would be too cowardly," Dreiberg answered with a shake of his head, "I think he just wanted to go out fighting—an honorable death." Putting his glasses back on, he gave her a sad smile, "Sorry kiddo, I wanted to cheer you up and here we are reminiscing about the dead."

She smiled and shrugged, "Well it's not like they'll speak for themselves. Thanks for coming by Dan."

They made their good-byes, and Sam was left leaning against the door, thinking about missing food, noble deaths, and sugar cubes.

---

Outside, Daniel Dreiberg was standing with his arms tucked behind his back, frowning darkly. After moment, he realized it was a very 'Adrian' pose and he shifted, choosing to cross his arms instead. He didn't like to think about how much Adrian had rubbed off on him over the years, but it was a game he'd had to learn and with it came the need to fit into Adrian's mold. Not that Laurie really minded the fact that at 63 he was in better shape than he was in his 'early retirement'. Still…that was neither here nor there. And he had far more to worry about.

Specifically this new copycat…and even more specifically what Sam wasn't telling him about him. It stung slightly that she felt the need to keep things from him, but it was certainly understandable—government surveillance was higher than ever and most citizens were still afraid of terrorists after the attacks in 2001.

His car pulled up outside and Dan looked up to the roof of the building before climbing in. He couldn't tell of the shadow that moved was the imposter, or a ghost; God knows the city had enough of both.

The buzz of his phone brought him out of his thoughts, and he scowled slightly, knowing already who it was. "Mr. President, what lucky timing." Dan could see his driver slouch slightly and glared at him through the rearview mirror. "Yes, I was just leaving….It's just another imposter," he listened for a long time, expression growing darker. "You're the one pushing research into teleportation; why don't you tell me what the blue flash has to do with anything?" Another lengthy pause, then "I swear you're getting paranoid in your old age, Adrian—I watched Rorschach die."

He made eye contact with his driver through the mirror. "It's just a coincidence—we've had plenty of imitators before and plenty will show up after. Good night Mr. President." The phone closed with a snap and he slipped it back into his inner coat pocket.

"Do you believe in coincidences, Mr Dreiberg," his driver asked.

Dan snorted softly, "The hell I do. I want you have one of ours keep an eye on Samantha Knight—someone quiet."

"Yes, Mr. Dreiberg."

"And David?" The driver looked back up, "It would be unwise to share about my movements without my knowledge."

"I'm sorry Mr. Dreiberg," the younger man admitted, breaking eye contact, "but the President called me directly and told me to inform him when I was picking you up. That's it."

"Good man." Dan relaxed fraction, he had trained enough young heroes to know when they were lying. David was damned talented and still an idealist—Dan was glad that he'd plucked him out of the program to be his assistant before he'd caught Adrian's eye.

They are quiet for sometime longer before David clears his throat softly, "Forgive me for asking but…"

Dan could only sigh in exasperation, "I've been through this so many times…It's _not_ Rorschach, David. I don't care how he knew about that damn uniform—he's not acting like Rorschach. Rorschach stopped leaving criminals tied up even before the Keene Act in '77—the murder of Blair Roche threw him over the edge. This is just some kid looking to keep a legend going and so long as he's not on a murderous rampage, then I'm happy to let him."

"Yes Mr. Dreiberg."

Dan watched the lights of the city go past as they left, thinking about third costumes, dead heroes, and sugar cubes.


End file.
